


Giant

by Valerin Berenghar (Valerin)



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mythical Beings & Creatures, One Shot, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28822236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valerin/pseuds/Valerin%20Berenghar
Summary: The uphill had defeated them in the same way the weather was slowly killing them; the horse had gone down like a falling tree – slow at first, and then with a loud thump. It didn't matter what the horse's name was or that he was named after a giant, they still wouldn't make it.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 18





	Giant

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand thanks to [@kayabiter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayabiter/works) who looked this over and transformed it into what you're about to read. <3

They wouldn’t make it.

Squirrel remembered when his nana had nicked her hand after cleaning fish; it had been a tiny cut, no longer than a pinky, but it had blackened at the edges. The healers had tried everything, but she had turned pale and glossy-eyed and started shaking like a leaf, and that was how she had died. He had seen it through a crack in the wall – how lovely, kind, and beautiful nana had trembled and twisted until she had no more.

Lancelot looked like that now. Not dead – not yet, although he didn’t exactly smell like roses, but he was white as snow, gaze lingering for too long wherever he looked, and he was shaking worse than a newborn colt. He wouldn’t be able to get up in the saddle again. Squirrel had pulled a muscle trying to get him up the last time when they had stopped for water.

The sky was an angry bruise above them and in the dying light, it was hard to see if Lancelot’s wounds were blackening at the edges, too. He hadn’t even bandaged himself up after the fight with the golden masked men, but then again, where would he find the bandages? The saddlebags were all air – they had a fire striker, but no dry wood after today’s downpour. They had a waterskin, but they were down to the last couple of gulps. They had some oats for the horse, but Squirrel opted for eating them himself because at least the horse could eat grass.

“Is he alright?” Squirrel asked lowly as Lancelot fiddled with the saddle, swaying like a drunkard where he stood. After a long moment of silence, the saddle slid off the horse’s back with a thud, sending drops of mud high and low.

The horse yanked up his head, ears tucking back and mouth white with foam. He was muddy from the fall, knees scraped up and black fur coated in muck. To call it a fall would perhaps be an exaggeration – they hadn’t exactly gotten tossed off the horse’s back. Even Lancelot who looked ready to trip over his own feet had managed to jump off before the horse had laid down flat on his side. The uphill had defeated them in the same way the weather was slowly killing them; the horse had gone down like a falling tree – slow at first, and then with a loud thump.

Squirrel felt his stomach twist with hunger—with worry after not getting a reply. He took a step closer, hands balling into fists even though he kept his arms wrapped around himself to stay warm. Lancelot tugged on the reins and the horse lowered his head with a loud snort, chewing on the bit as he began working open the buckle to the throatlatch.

“You shouldn’t let him loose,” Squirrel said. The wind swept through with a mighty roar, icy touch scrunching up his face as he watched how Lancelot did that sway again – it urged him closer in a heartbeat, hand flinging out to grip his belt to stop him from keeling over.

“He needs to rest.” The words were barely there. To call it a whisper would be too generous.

“We need to keep going—we can lead him,” Squirrel said, watching how Lancelot pulled off the bridle and dropped it unceremoniously onto the saddle. Realizing it would slide off the saddle seat and into the mud, Squirrel quickly picked it back up.

The horse shook his head, black mane turning into a flurry of spikes for a beat. Now without the chamfron, a white star peeked forth beneath the thick forelock. Lancelot petted the long, arched neck and mumbled something quietly – it wasn’t anything in common, and it didn’t sound like the sharp tongue from the raiders that Squirrel had heard from those times he had accompanied papa to Hawksbridge. Whatever language Lancelot spoke, it was easy on the ear, silvery and soft, and it disappeared altogether when the wind pulled through again.

Squirrel hunched on himself, shoulder accidentally bumping into Lancelot’s side as he clenched his jaw shut at the wind’s merciless bite.

“Did you hear what I said? We need to keep going,” he said, knuckles whitening around Lancelot’s belt. When he didn’t get a reply, he continued – sharper this time around. “Are you talking to that bloody horse, or what?”

Lancelot glanced down at him, crisp and slow as if the mere shift hurt. Not a muscle moved on his face, but his eyes looked tired – glossy and done for. 

Squirrel felt the hair at the back of his neck rise.

Without a word, Lancelot looked away in the same absent manner and patted the horse on the neck again. He mumbled something short and incomprehensible – it could be a delirious rambling for all Squirrel cared, but he still wanted to know what it was.

He craned his neck to the side, jostling Lancelot by the belt to try and get his stupid attention. “Hellooo?”

Lancelot steadied himself by gripping his shoulder but paid him no mind beyond that. Instead, he stroked the horse on the neck again and fell silent. The horse clipped his ears as he cautiously took the first, limping step forth.

“He’s going to run away,” Squirrel said, feeling his heart suddenly thump hard in his chest as he watched the horse plod off, head hanging low. He loosened his grip on Lancelot’s belt, seeing him sway in the corner of his eye as Squirrel whirled around to follow the horse – it was picking up the pace one ginger step at the time and it was definitely going to run away—

—a hand gripped firmly around his arm, stopping him from taking that first running step after the horse.

“What are you _doing,”_ Squirrel fumed, looking up at Lancelot so quick that his neck cramped. He put his weight back, straining against the hold on his arm, but Lancelot’s fingers tightened further. “He’s running away!”

The more he pulled, the more Lancelot swayed, looking ready to fall at the next gust of wind. Flushing with anger, Squirrel yanked his arm free with a huff and Lancelot let go without further fight. It was either that, or the bastard would get a closer look at the ground.

“You’re so damn stupid!” Squirrel roared, blood properly boiling in his veins and hands clenched in fists. He looked back in the direction where the horse had taken off, blinking once—twice, but couldn’t see anything but the wind blowing over the high grass. The moor was wide and empty, slanting up and down in waves, but no ridge was big enough to make a horse disappear. It was as if he was gone with the wind.

The sight hollowed him out, momentarily pacifying the wildfire of fury. He turned his head left and right, taking in every little movement in the landscape before them, but saw nothing that could even resemble an animal.

“Where did he go?” he asked, words so sharp that they sounded like a demand. He peered up at Lancelot, eyes somewhere far off – Squirrel tried to follow his line of sight, only to realize he was staring up into nothing. The lack of any reply rubbed his nerves raw, anger simmering in his veins within a heartbeat once more.

Squirrel chucked the bridle on him. It hit him on the side before it dropped toward the ground with a wet noise. Lancelot didn’t move a muscle and for some reason, it made everything even worse. It made Squirrel want to yank up the muddy bridle and toss it at him again—he wanted him to say or do _anything._

All that anger made him shake his fists at the empty moor, fiery words bursting out loud. _“Why_ did you do that?”

“He needed to rest.” The words were spoken in the same low voice as before; unfeeling, uncaring and utterly infuriating.

“Rest? He took off!” Squirrel seethed. “And now we have to walk!”

Lancelot did nothing but that weird twitch with his eyebrows that reset his face into that blank, stupid look. Simmering with anger, Squirrel turned on his heel with a huff because he couldn’t even look at him or he would send a fist flying. He wanted to punch something—anything. It was either that, or tear his hair out in pure frustration.

“His name is Goliath,” Lancelot said flatly.

Just as quickly as he had turned, Squirrel whirled back to face him. “What kind of stupid name is that?”

There was a beat of silence, another faraway look up at the grey heaven and then: “It’s from the Bible.”

“I don’t care about that stupid, _stupid_ book,” Squirrel bristled. “Just like I don’t care about that stupid, stupid horse—and you, you are stupid too!”

Lancelot bowed his head, gaze falling low. His bruised lips pressed in a tight line.

Squirrel felt the ground tremble beneath his feet – short like a hiccup, but strong enough to drag his gaze down to the mud. The small pools in the mud rippled, and then it happened again, stronger this time.

Then it stopped just as quickly as it had begun.

Beyond the raging sound of his heart running rabbit-fast in his chest, Squirrel noticed that the world was ghostly quiet around them. Everywhere he looked there was nothing but stillness looking back at him. He couldn’t help but be overcome with the eerie feeling that time had seized to exist – the wind that had previously danced over the high grass was long gone and everything was perfectly still.

His gaze landed on Lancelot again. He was bruising badly, one eye swollen shut and turning so dark that Squirrel couldn’t even see the tear marks anymore. When he noticed that Squirrel was looking his way, he spoke slowly.

“The story of Goliath says that he was a giant.”

For a blink, it was as if someone killed the sun. When Squirrel looked up, he found the sky veiled in grey clouds. The hair at the back of his neck rose anew, stomach sinking with a tight ball of dread.

The wind roared loud – louder than ever before, and for longer. It sounded like it came from above the clouds, and that couldn’t be right. Squirrel swallowed down the taste of fear, breaths suddenly not finding enough depth as he moved closer to Lancelot, tiny hands grasping for purchase on his belt as he pressed himself close.

“What’s happening?”

“Don’t be afraid,” Lancelot mumbled, wrapping an arm around Squirrel’s shoulders. “You’re a Skyman, are you not?”

Squirrel didn’t know what to make of those words. Not that he got any time to ponder on them either as the sun went out again, longer this time. 

His heart lurched in his chest. A forceful gust of wind sent mud flying, and Squirrel held up a hand to shield his face, eyes squeezing shut. The ground shook so violently that he thought it would crack right open – even Lancelot swayed, making Squirrel cling to him harder.

It took him a moment to realize that the wind had died, that the ground had stopped trembling. When he opened his eyes, he found that everything was darker – a shadow big as a mountain cast over them. His jaw fell open, eyes rounding as he craned his neck up and up and up.

It couldn’t be true.

It wasn’t real.

Two giant eyes stared back at him, burning blue like the hottest of fires. Green veins slithered between the ebony scales, glowing in a steady pulse all over its chest and up its long neck, over the mighty jaws and up the spiky horns. While Lancelot was tall enough to have his head in the clouds, he would barely reach higher than the creature’s jaws. Its nostrils flared with a mighty exhale and Squirrel coughed, air suddenly turning hard to breathe as the hot breath washed over them.

There was a slight pressure on his shoulder from Lancelot’s hand, gently urging him forward, but Squirrel dug his heels in. He looked up at him with wide-blown eyes.

“I told you,” Lancelot met his gaze with an unchallenged calm, lips curled just the slightest, and then he looked up—up to the dragon. “Goliath was a giant.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are always welcomed. I'm also on Tumblr if you want to follow me there -- [Valerin Berenghar.](https://valerin-berenghar.tumblr.com/)


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